I am confused.
In fact, I am irked. Irked and vexed.
For years and years my parents had regaled me with tales of the brave orc warriors, my kin, who had fought vicious wars and covered themselves, the Horde and the Warchief in glory (and presumably a fair quantity of blood). I had relinquished my dream of following a more peaceful, shamanic path some time ago. They had not been granted sons, I heard (almost nightly), and therefore I should go out into the world, when I was of age, and make them as proud as any sons would have made them. And ok, you have to respect your parents wishes, don't you? So I agreed that yes, when I was old enough, I'd take the battered, chipped old axe that my father had killed many... things... with and I'd present myself at The Valley of Trials for conditioning and training. And hope that they didn't take one look at The Axe of My Father and fall over laughing. They might even, I supposed, provide me with a decent whetstone to sharpen it with.
Obviously, I was expecting some warning. Some conversation nearer the time. I knew that they'd tell me that it was time I went, rather than ask me, but I didn't expect to be frog-marched into the Orgrimmar barbers and have some greasy goblin clamber onto my shoulders and hack away at my hair. This, apparently, was their way of telling me that it was time for me to go. I'm not vain, I'd like to add, it's just that I'd thought maybe if I kept my hair long, they'd look at me one day and reconsider, "yes, clearly Steka looks much more of a... wise woman than a warrior. Perhaps we should think again about what SHE wants...I'll see if that shaman wants an apprentice..." that type of thing. But no such luck. What I got was a giggling goblin shaving the sides of my head and slapping something probably made of crushed beetles over the remains (to darken the colour, it turned out - not just for his amusement) and then taking the remaining hair and gluing it (with I don't want to think what) into three long spikes. Then he poked me until I bared my teeth at him and then my parents were proud. They took me to the tavern, gave me some quite disgusting mead to drink and my father proudly presented me with his axe. It looked even more battered than I remembered, frankly, but I held it reverentially and promised him that I'd make it look like a true warriors axe (i.e. cover it in blood and gore) as soon as I had the opportunity to.
My father made some gruff speech about the world changing and allegiance now being shown to Garrosh and how I'd need to prove myself even more under his rule (oh joy!) and then they whistled up an incredibly hairy wolf, strapped me on and waved as this thing charged out of the city, it's tongue lolling out of its mouth, its tail wagging madly. What a perfect send off (did you note the sarcasm in that sentence?) It deposited me unceremoniously in the Valley and after brushing off the worst of the dirt and strapping my axe to my back, I presented myself to Gornek. He couldn't have cared less about The Axe of My Father - all he wanted me to do was to go and kill boars. Not wild, roaming boars with huge tusks mind you. Just small, grey boars in a wooden pen. I'm still not sure why - they were hardly a threat to the locals, but it doesn't do to ask questions, so off I went.
I'd like to tell you that this was a truly epic challenge - that The Axe of my Father served me well and that despite it's battered and chipped appearance it was a weapon of keen sharpness, but I can't. And for the record, the boars were so docile that I could probably have beaten them (slowly) to death with a soggy piece of parchment. Their sole method of defence was to snort. So I returned to Gornek, not especially blood coated, to be sent off to see a cook who required me to collect some apples. Apples! Ok, they were from moderately prickly cacti but I'm an orc! We have quite tough skin...
I'm not sure that this warrior lark is quite the same as it was in my father's day.